


If You Can't Stand the Heat

by Pinkerton



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Romantic Fluff, boys cooking, jack zimmermann likes grand gestures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkerton/pseuds/Pinkerton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jack needs help to impress a date, Bitty's got his back, even if he hates every minute of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Stand the Heat

**Author's Note:**

> I had a long week, so I wrote myself a self-indulgent story about fictional hockey players and food, two of my favorite things. 
> 
> Thanks to Ngozi for creating such an amazing bunch of characters.

The smell of garlic is fading from the kitchen as Bitty washes dishes after dinner, shaking it to his favorite Pandora station while up to his elbows in suds. Jack takes in the scene as he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Bittle,” he says. 

Bitty jolts and drops the pan he was cleaning, letting out a squeak that Jack stores away for future chirping. “Oh my Lord, Jack, you scared me!” Bitty says, throwing a dirty look at Jack and resuming scrubbing.

Jack laughs. “Sorry, Bittle. Need some help?”

“No, I’m almost done. Need something?”

“Maybe,” Jack says, walking over and picking up a towel. He starts to dry, ignoring Bitty’s huff of irritation. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re fine without the help, but I actually like drying dishes just let me—ow, no elbowing, Bittle.”

Bitty smiles angelically and glances at Jack out of the corner of his eye, then cups his hands and sends a jet of soapy water straight onto Jack’s shirt. Jack doesn’t even pause in drying dishes. Bitty rolls his eyes and they work in silence for a few minutes.

“I do have a favor to ask,” Jack starts as he stashes a pot away in a high cabinet. “You remember helping me cook for our class project?”

Bitty puts down the soapy casserole dish in his hands and looks fully at Jack. “Does a mother hen remember her chick’s first steps?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jack says. “I need help again. I need to make a dinner that will impress someone.”

“Oh honey, you came to the right place. Who are we impressing? Family? Friend? Canadian Olympic team member and gold medal winner?”

“You’re gonna have to let that go eventually, Bittle.”

“Beeeh-tle,” Bitty says, putting on a terrible French accent and scrubbing the dish aggressively, “Come and say ‘allo to my uncle on zee Skype.”

“Your accent is atrocious—“

“Well how was I supposed to know that your Uncle Mario is Mario Lemieux?”

“Context clues?”

“And then I’m on Skype with a literal hockey legend, wearing just my middle school gym shorts—“

“You looked fine.”

“—and a shirt that says ‘Don’t Worry, Be Yoncé!” Bitty lets out a short wail. Jack reaches over and pats his shoulder. 

“Fine, fine,” Bitty says. “You have your fun with your famous friends of the family. Now, who are we impressing with this dinner?”

“Someone I’m hoping to date.” 

“Oh,” Bitty says. He scrubs a moment more, then puts the dish down and dries his hands. “I think I need a fresh sponge to get at this dish. I’ll be right back.” He pulls off his apron and leaves the kitchen. Jack picks up the perfectly clean dish out of the water, rinses and dries it, and carefully wipes down the counters before he heads upstairs to study.

* * * 

It takes two weeks, but Bitty coaches Jack through four courses. Jack had suggested soup to start, only to have Bitty scoff, “No one looks good while eating soup.” He’d pulled out a recipe for goat cheese medallions rolled in herbs. “Roll them very small, kinda like lil balls, so you can get the whole thing on one cracker.” Ransom, sitting at the table and studying, cracks up at the first “ball” and is soon kicked out of the kitchen.

For the second course, Bitty helps Jack modify his favorite salad from a local steakhouse, fennel and citrus with almonds. Jack’s second attempt at dressing emulsifies beautifully. Shitty and Dex wipe their plates clean. “Jack, this dressing is so good, I’d date you,” Shitty says, running a finger across his plate to scoop up the last of it. Bitty winces and buries his nose in his phone screen, typing furiously. 

When Jack’s first attempt at roast chicken comes out perfect, with burnished, crackling skin and a heavenly scent of rosemary and lemon, Bitty cries actual tears. Dex and Nursey snap the wishbone the next day, with Dex getting the wish. He passes the piece of bone to Jack, shrugging, “Use the luck on your date.” Jack grins at him as Bitty, putting away leftovers, scowls into the fridge. 

After Jack’s third try at mashed potatoes, which are so salty and gummy even Chowder won’t eat them, Bitty is willing to admit defeat and throws a bag of frozen French fries at Jack. “They can cook with the chicken for the last half hour. Take the assist, Captain.” Jack nods and meticulously copies the instructions on the bag into his slightly spattered notebook of recipes and cooking tips.

 

Jack doesn’t need help with his last dish, an apple crisp recipe his mom used to let him help with. Alicia Zimmermann is aggressive with cinnamon, and Bitty can respect that. The crisp turns out delicious, but still sticks in Bitty’s throat, not letting him eat more than a couple bites. 

* * *

That Saturday, the Haus residents clear out for a movie as Jack takes over the kitchen, setting up his mise en place. He’s wearing Bitty’s best apron and already has a smudge of flour on his cheek. The boys call out their well wishes as they leave, Shitty slinging his arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “Cheer up Bits, you done good. He’s gonna nail this date.” Holster cackles and Bitty shoves Shitty’s arm away, tucking his face into his scarf to hide his dour expression. 

Bitty’s all settled in for the film with his popcorn and cherry coke, checking his phone one last time before previews end. When he pulls up the home screen he sees five texts from Jack, increasingly frantic, the last of which is just a series of exclamation points after a photo of something smoking in a pan. “Oh no,” Eric gasps, “Shitty, I gotta go—Jack’s fixing to burn down the kitchen!” 

Bitty just about sprints back to the Haus and is totally out of breath by the time he throws the front door open. It doesn’t smell like a disaster, though. It smells like lemon and rosemary. Bitty shucks his coat as he walks toward the kitchen, and starts to unwind his scarf from his neck. He reaches the door and takes a deep, steadying breath before entering.

The table is covered in a white cloth and set with dishware that almost matches. There are lit candles in the center and twinkling Christmas lights strung on the walls. Jack, wearing a button down and dress slacks that do criminal things to his thighs, is holding a tray with two cocktails on it. 

“Hi, Bittle,” he says, as Bitty stops dead in his tracks, his scarf slipping from his fingers to the floor. 

“Bittle?” Jack tries again.

Bitty’s eyes are wide, still taking in the scene before him. “Jack. You—this looks…perfect.”

Jack clears his throat, glancing at the table and back to Bitty. “I hope so. It was a lot of work.”

“Jack, what—I mean, your texts. I…everything looks fine.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“I don’t understand. The picture of the chicken—“

“Lardo helped with that.”

“Lardo---Jack, where’s your date?”

“I had to do something to get you here.”

“Yeah, but—“ Bitty stops talking, and brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He stays that way for a good minute. 

Jack begins to twitch a little, the ice in the drinks rattling slightly. “Bittle, are you okay?”

Bitty nods, lowering his hand and tapping his fingers against his thigh. “Did the entire Haus know that this was for me?”

Jack nods.

“Even Chowder?”

“Even Chowder, Bittle.”

“Is there alcohol in those drinks?”

“Yes.”

“Please give me one.” Jack walks over and hands Bitty a cocktail. Bitty downs half of it in one gulp. It’s gently sweet, with a good amount of tart citrus balancing it. Bitty looks into the glass. “Jack Zimmermann, is there fresh thyme in this cocktail?”

Jack looks over, his own drink in hand. “Yeah, and some local honey.”

Bitty groans. “You are the absolute worst,” he says, before putting his drink down and stepping quickly to Jack, going on tip toe to kiss him. Jack tastes like honey and something spicy, and his lips are soft. Jack places his free hand on the back of Bitty’s neck, and Bitty flinches. 

Jack jumps back, his drink sloshing. “No, no,” Bitty says, starting to laugh. “Your hand is cold, that’s all.”

Jack glances from his drink to the frosted cocktail shaker on the counter. “Oh,” he says, his shoulders slumping down. “Oh I thought you didn’t—“

“Oh, I do,” Bitty says. “I really, really do,” and he keeps laughing as Jack picks him up and sets him on the countertop, moves in, and kisses him breathless. 

Neither of them notice the timer on Jack’s phone ringing, and the chicken burns almost to cinder, but it turns out that apple crisp, eaten straight from the pan while piled under blankets in Jack’s bed is pretty much the best first date dinner ever.


End file.
